THE MOSQUE OF ES-SALIH TALAI
I returned to Cairo little the richer in artistic material, but
feeling much the better for the few days of desert air. Though Cairo
stands on the fringe of a desert, the three-quarters of a million of
its inhabitants are bound to vitiate its air, and they have certainly
polluted its soil. No drainage system as yet carries off the sewage
from the main part of the native city, where the dust is often laid by
the slops emptied on the roadway. It is true that the _Tanzím_ employs
a large number of scavengers; but their efforts are chiefly confined
to the modern quarters, where there is some hope of dealing with so
difficult a task. The Arab’s ideas as to road-cleaning, when he is left
to himself, is to sweep the dust about rather than to clear it away;
the scavenger is therefore the greatest nuisance of all the nuisances
the sketcher has to contend with. When taken unawares, a sweep from
one of these idiots’ brooms may cover with dust your drawing and your
pallet before you can stop him or get out of his way. Were it not for
the sun, which sterilises this dust, a large population could never
have existed here.
[Illustration: ARAB SCHOOL]
Cairo is unpaintable during the few grey days of midwinter, and perhaps
this is just as well, for when the Great Germicide does not shine,
the place must be very unhealthy. An overcast sky often drove me
into the mosques, where I could spend my time in drawing my subject,
until the warm reflections from the sunlit court should make me feel
instinctively for my pallet.
I flattered myself that few nooks and corners existed in the old city
which I had not explored, till I turned up a narrow lane outside the
Bab Zaweyla and found myself in the ruinous court of a delightful old
mosque. It is extraordinary that I should have overlooked this during
the many seasons I have spent in Cairo. The lane is called Haret
es-Salih, and the mosque servant informed me that this was the mosque
of Salih. Who this Salih might be was more than the servant could
tell--he had not been there more than twenty years--should it be a
mosque called after the founder of the mameluke dynasty, its date could
not be earlier than the middle of the thirteenth century. There is much
remaining which suggests an earlier period, both in the plan and in
the construction of the arches; the foliated background, to the Kufic
lettering which decorates these arches, seemed hardly in keeping with
the work of the orthodox Moslems who succeeded the Fátimid dynasty.
I looked up all the Salihs who crop up in Stanley Lane-Poole’s _Story
of Cairo_--a handy little volume, published by Messrs. Dent and Co.,
which no visitor to Egypt should fail to get--and I succeeded in
placing him as Talái ibn-Russik, who on his accession to power styled
himself el-Melik es-Sâlih. He was the last but one of the Fátimid
khalifs, and he built this mosque in 1160, the sixth year of his reign.
There is little now remaining of all that was built in the enclosure
which Gawhar pegged out as the site of el-Mo’izz’s ‘guarded city’; the
small mosque, el-Akmar, happily still exists and enables students to
study the less restricted forms of decoration which the Sheea heresy
permits. The boundaries of el-Kahira were considerably extended during
the two centuries of Fátimid rule; the three great gates and Hakim’s
mosque remain as specimens of the work of that period, and they also
mark the limits of the extended city.
It was outside the walls of the Cairo of those days where Talái
ibn-Russik built his mosque, and it remained for Saladin, who succeeded
the Fátimid khalifs, to yet further enclose and bring this mosque well
within the walls of his enlarged capital.
The entrance is through a gateway supporting the minaret, which latter
is probably of a later period than the rest of the building. The
colonnade, which surrounded three sides of the square court, has almost
disappeared, as well as parts of the enclosing wall. The _liwán_, which
is the subject of the accompanying illustration, is still intact. Kept
sufficiently in repair so as to prevent its falling down, it has never
suffered the hand of the renovator to sweep out every trace of the
mellowing influence of near eight centuries of use.
An ugly wooden fence enclosed it from the court, but I was able to see
enough through the palings to paint it as if this disfigurement were
not there. The court is on a higher level to the _liwán_ owing to
the accumulation of rubbish which has not been cleared away, and this
accounts for the high horizon in the picture. It also enabled me to see
less of the exasperating fence. Though still used as a place of worship
on Fridays, it serves as a school during the rest of the week. The
young students squatting on the matting and committing to memory verses
of the Koran form picturesque groups, and the little crowd around the
rostrum of the teacher centralises the subject.
The scenes are on a smaller scale than those which may be witnessed
any day at the Azhar, or University Mosque. The latter has been so
over-restored, and not always in a judicious manner, that I have never
been tempted to paint there. The students here are mostly lads, and are
either preparing for the university or are the children of parents who
may not approve of the modernised form of instruction at the Khedivial
schools. As in all purely Arab schools, the training is almost entirely
confined to exercising the memory rather than the development of the
reasoning faculties. It is often quite sufficient qualification for a
teacher to know his Koran by heart, so that he can detect any mistakes
in the verses which he hears his scholars repeat. As every lad repeats
aloud what he tries to learn by heart, the noise is easily imagined.
There seems little restraint; the lads nibble at their lunch or buy
drinks from the lemonade-seller when it pleases them; those to whom the
teacher’s back is turned may indulge their liking for _mankalah_ or any
other games easily secreted under their cloaks; and had it not been for
the powerful lungs of Mansoor, most of the scholars would have taken
up a position around my easel.
When the clouds dispersed and the further angle of the court formed
a warm sun pocket, the greater number would leave the _liwán_ and
repeat their verses in the warmth. Mansoor’s work of keeping the lads
away from me then became more arduous. He found an ally in the mosque
servant, and when gentle persuasion failed more drastic measures were
used. The noise in the court did not in the least seem to disturb the
good-natured teacher, and when he left his rostrum he would come and
have a look at the work I was doing.
I came here many times, for not only did the drawing and detail of this
subject take up several long mornings, but I had a second one on hand
of which these lads in the sun made the foreground. That they should be
curious to see what I had made of them was natural enough, so I gave
them an opportunity of satisfying their curiosity before I packed up to
go. In sketching a group of figures which is constantly on the move,
the head of one may be suggested on the body of another who may have
moved away. This seemed to perplex my spectators considerably. When
Ahmed had identified his _kuftan_ or _galabieh_, Seleem would point
out the head as belonging to himself. A good stare at me to see if any
signs of the evil one were visible would follow: if some _afri’t_ had
not assisted me in this uncanny work, how else was it to be explained.
As mornings begun in sunshine may turn to grey in winter, or the other
way about, my having two good subjects in the same place was a great
advantage, for though a reflected sunlight improved my _liwán_, I
could nevertheless find plenty of detail to draw while the sky was
overcast. ‘Good gracious!’ it actually rained one morning, and with my
drawings I joined in the rush for shelter under the arches. Volunteers
to carry my belongings were numerous, but Mansoor would only allow some
privileged youngster to carry my stool. The teacher would drone out the
verses of the _Fáthah_ quite regardless of the disturbance.
The profession of a _fikee_ is, I am told, not a lucrative one. A
half-piastre, _i.e._ five farthings, per week per pupil used to be his
earnings, though this may have increased slightly with the general
increase of wages. If we consider his intellectual equipment and
compare it with that of a schoolmaster at home, it is possible that
the pay of the _fikee_ may compare very favourably. They often eke out
this miserable pittance by reading a chapter of the Koran in the houses
of the well-to-do. One recently ‘killed two birds with one stone’ by
posing as a model to me, while he also repeated the _Fáthah_, outside
the entrance to a hareem. I am afraid that some giggling, which I could
hear through the _mushrbiyeh_, may have been caused by my attempt at
portraiture. I turned my easel towards the wooden grating to satisfy
a legitimate curiosity which might possibly have been excited in the
‘prohibited place.’ The giggles developed into loud laughter. I rather
fancied my sketch, and, in spite of this unfavourable criticism, I
still fail to see anything funny in it. The _fikee_ turned out to be
as big a fraud as most of the natives whom I have induced to pose to
me. The value of time becomes enormous to any loafer who poses for an
hour, and, according to this _fikee_, it might have been as valuable as
that of a Harley Street specialist. Some feminine jeers, heard through
the _mushrbiyeh_, hastened his departure.
According to Lane the schoolmasters in Egypt are mostly persons of
very little learning; few are acquainted with any writings except
the Koran and certain prayers, which, as well as the contents of the
sacred volume, they are hired to recite on particular occasions. It
is fair to say that the Egypt of Lane is the Egypt of full seventy
years ago. Under the advisership of Mr. Dunlop and his staff of able
school-inspectors, a sound education on enlightened lines is now
obtainable even in the smallest towns for the children whose parents
can or will afford the fees of the Khedivial schools. But the _kuttáb_,
as the poorer and purely Mohammedan schools are called, seem to have
drifted into a backwater, and are little influenced by the stream of
enlightenment which flows past them.
The story Lane tells of a _fikee_ of his time might still apply
to present-day teachers in some of the villages, and may be worth
repeating here: ‘I was lately told of a man who could neither read nor
write succeeding to the office of a schoolmaster in my neighbourhood.
Being able to recite the whole of the Koran, he could hear the boys
repeat their lessons; to write them, he employed the _areef_ (or
head-boy and monitor of the school), pretending that his eyes are weak.
A few days after he had taken upon himself this office, a poor woman
brought a letter for him to read to her from her son, who had gone
on pilgrimage. The _fikee_ pretended to read it, but said nothing;
and the woman, inferring from his silence that the letter contained
bad news, said to him, “Shall I shriek?” He answered, “Yes.” “Shall
I tear my clothes?” she asked; he replied, “Yes.” So the poor woman
returned to her house, and with her assembled friends performed the
lamentation and other ceremonies usual on the occasion of a death. Not
many days after this her son arrived, and she asked him what he could
mean by causing a letter to be written stating that he was dead? He
explained the contents of the letter, and she went to the schoolmaster
and begged him to inform her why he had told her to shriek and tear her
clothes, since the letter was to inform her that her son was well, and
he was now arrived at home. Not at all abashed, he said, “God knows
futurity. How could I know that your son would arrive in safety? It is
better that you should think him dead than to be led to expect to see
him and perhaps be disappointed.” Some persons who were sitting with
him praised his wisdom, exclaiming, “Truly, our new _fikee_ is a man
of judgment!” and for a little while he found that he had raised his
reputation by this blunder.’
I must refrain from quoting from that fund of knowledge, Lane’s
_Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians_, for since it has been so
ably edited by Mr. Ernest Rhys, it has been placed within the reach of
every one by Messrs. Dent in the ‘Everyman’s Library’ series.
As my view of the mosque is from the court, there was no objection to
my painting there during the _duhr_ or midday service on Fridays. I was
much tempted to make that my subject, but I refrained from doing so, as
I have done that subject once or twice before. The ritual has become
more familiar to me, and I was able to follow better what was going on.
The mosque servant, who often helped my man to keep off the boys during
the week-days, increased in importance on Fridays (which, I need hardly
inform my readers, correspond to our Sundays). Half an hour before noon
the _mueddin_ ascends the minaret and chants the _selám_ from one of
the balconies. This is not the _adán_ or ordinary call to prayer, but
a salutation to the Prophet, the _adán_ being called a little after
the noon. The worshippers soon arrive, for there are the ablutions to
be performed before they take their seats in the _liwán_. A reader, in
the meanwhile, ascends the rostrum facing the prayer-niche or _mirhab_,
and begins reciting the ‘Soorat el-Kahf,’ which is one of the chapters
in the Koran. Each worshipper drops his slippers before he steps on to
the matting, and places them sole to sole next to where he sits down.
He performs two prostrations and then sits patiently till the _adán_ is
called from the minaret, when the recitation of the _soorat_ ceases.
During this call the whole congregation, which faces the prayer-niche,
kneels instead of sitting cross-legged as hitherto. On the last
syllable of the _adán_ every man rises and, holding his hands, palm
outwards, close to his ears, he repeats the ‘Allahu Akbar’ which has
descended from the minaret. He then makes the various prostrations of
the _rekah_, repeating the same words at each different posture, and
concludes with the salutations to the Prophet.
[Illustration: THE BLUE MOSQUE]
The _murakkee_ (who was no other than the mosque servant and my ally of
the courtyard) then proceeded to open the folding-doors of the pulpit,
and took a wooden sword from behind them, and holding it with its point
to the ground, he also repeated the salutation. From a raised platform
(known as the _dikkeh_, and standing at the entrance to the _liwán_)
an officiant now chants the praises of Mohammed. The servant then
recites each verse of the _adán_, and they are repeated in a sonorous
voice by the man on the _dikkeh_. During this the _khateeb_, as the
preacher is called, advances to the pulpit, and taking the sword from
the _murakkee_, he slowly ascends the steps, and reaching the top one,
he waits till the recital is concluded.
The preacher stands, holding the sword point downwards, and delivers
his address in a solemn and effective manner to his congregation, who
sit rapt in attention.
No special vestments are worn by those who officiate, and the ordinary
robes of a sheykh seem perfectly appropriate. The sword, the only
object used in the simple ritual, is to remind the hearers that Islam
was spread by the sword and that by its power it should, if necessary,
still be maintained. Little outward reverence is shown to the mosque,
as such, at ordinary times, for I have seen it used as a convenient
place to sleep in during the heat of the day, and the playing amongst
its columns of lads during the intervals of their tasks strikes no one
as unseemly behaviour. But at the call to prayer the demeanour of all
present is strikingly reverent.
I have worked in a great number of mosques and must have seen thousands
of men attending the services, but I don’t recall having seen half
a dozen worshippers in any other but the native dress. Now that all
the youth of the country, who attend the Khedivial schools or have of
late years passed through their classes, adopt the European garb; that
the numerous employees in the government and other offices have all
forsaken the native dress--is it not strange that a trousered Moslem
should hardly ever be seen inside a mosque unless he goes there merely
as a spectator? The _effendi_, a title loosely given to every native
in European dress and _tarbouch_, feels, I’m sure, ill at ease amongst
his co-religionists when the services of his religion are being held.
The devout Moslem views the western garb as ‘a mark of the Beast.’ This
is felt so strongly in Morocco, that should a Moor appear in coat and
trousers, his co-religionists would tear them off him.
The encouragement given in Egypt to the adoption of western clothes is
a fatal mistake. The courteous manners of the oriental seem to leave
him with his cast-off _kuftán_; his morals are distinctly worse when
the ties of his creed are loosened; and the Christian missionary knows
well enough that the westernised Egyptian is not a fertile soil for the
Gospel seed. We must not flatter ourselves that our hold on Egypt is in
any way strengthened by this silly fashion; we have only to attend a
nationalist demonstration to see how the trousered effendi out-numbers
the robed Egyptian. Should the sword of the preacher unhappily be held
aloft and a holy war proclaimed from every pulpit, this European veneer
would vanish like smoke, and the effendi would revert to the garb of
the sheykh.
During my first season in Egypt I painted a crowd of young students at
the entrance of one of the Khedivial schools. The lads were all robed
and turbaned, and whatever their social positions may have been, each
individual looked a dignified young gentleman. When next I visited
Cairo all this was changed. The _kuftán_ and the _gibbeh_ were replaced
by sweated tailor goods from some Greek departmental stores. I felt a
personal dislike to the whole education department, and especially to
the British Adviser. I am glad to add that I have since learnt that our
countrymen had nothing to do with it. It was the Egyptian officials
who inaugurated the change. Education has made such advances since the
British occupation, through the efforts of a hard-working and certainly
not overpaid British staff, that I am glad to know that I was not
justified in attributing to it so foolish a blunder.